


009 - Ayatollah

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert, Songfic, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Could you write one based on ayatollah? Xxx” //  Alright, this is going to seem like it’s about Kathleen (the song, not a person), but that’s just a starting point. Hopefully you see all the lil’ Ayatollah references.





	009 - Ayatollah

**Author's Note:**

> Please not this story features discussion of mental illness, and domestic violence (brother-sister).

You spent far too much time reading into Van's lyrics when you were dating, that was the problem. Well, one of the problems. You knew that he'd take parts of overheard conversations, and sometimes bits of real life stories to incorporate into the songs, but you also knew he kind of just wrote them quickly. Whatever flowed well and sounded good. You remember one reviewer expressing disappointment at the lack of a deeper meaning, and them asking Van if the words were metaphors, to which he laughed out a "nah, mate, it is what it is." So, reading into them was stupid.

The final straw was Kathleen. The truth was that you did own a fuck load of worries, and a chest that collapsed daily with heartache. Obviously this meant you couldn't be cuts above. Van didn't understand how you could be so hurt by the lyrics. They were just words, after all. To you, they meant that Van didn't understand the anxiety and the pain and the buried memories of a childhood that was made of nightmares and a brother that liked violence. Obvious to everyone else though, was that Van loved you and would always be there to pick you up. He didn't want a girl made of sunshine and rainbows, he wanted you.

"If you think they mean that much, Y/N, then I guess I'll just always let you down!" he said in a tone that you couldn't read and interpreted too seriously. "I'm so fucking sorry this is how you are and that I can't fix it all for you. I'm sorry that I wouldn't go meet your fucking family sooner, but why would I want to? Your brother broke your arm three fucking times, Y/N," he was getting more upset and his voice was getting louder. "I'm sorry! But I don't look at you and see all that, I see all the good things and that you're gonna' get better, that it's gonna' be alright."

"So, potential? You see potential in me to be okay one day so you're dealing with all this shit now?"

"That's not what I said, Y/N," he took a breath and stepped closer. You stepped backwards and he looked wounded.

It was over and you couldn't work out who was better or worse off for it. You were adamant that Van deserved someone uncomplicated and unburden by mental illness, and you were being eaten alive with the guilt of thinking that. You advocated for mental health being important, and wanted the stigma to be reduced. Somehow none of that could be applied to yourself though.

You listened to the radio every now and then and heard Catfish. He was doing well and he was writing love songs about girls that didn't exist. It should have been evidence that the lyrics didn't always translate to real life. It should have been, but that isn't how your head worked.

It got worse without Van. He was grounding, and going to band practice and shows with him provided some routine. He always made sure your medication was sorted. He even bought one of those little boxes with a space for each day of the week. He'd put your meds in them, a multi-vitamin, and a few M&Ms. You cried about it for an hour straight when he first showed you. Without all that love and acceptance, you crumbled.

You were sleeping in the spare room of your friend's when you realised how badly you had fucked up. How wrong you were. It was far too late, though, you concluded. You mixed yourself a drink and took the last vitamin you had. You chased it with the next day's M&Ms. Maybe a last ditch effort to look after yourself.

It was only the cusp of dawn when you woke up sick. Your head was heavy with pressure and there was an itch deep in your skin too far into your bones to scratch. You stumbled out into the flat. Nobody home. Right. She had an early shift. Something was terribly wrong but you'd become too self-sufficient to know who to call. Nobody knew about the medication, or your psychologist's emergency number, or anything helpful at all. All the walls protected you from the rest of the world, but when the fire was on the inside they could only serve to trap you.

The phone on the other end of the line kept ringing. You expected to leave a messy voicemail, but then his voice croaked out a sleepy "Hello?" You were using the landline, so he wouldn't know it's you. You'd need to say something.

"Van?" Your voice came out small.

There was movement, then his voice more awake. "Y/N? What's wrong? Where are you?"

It took him twenty-six minutes to get to you. You knew because you curled up in the corner of the kitchen and watched the red numbers on the microwave screen change every minute. He burst into the room, but slowed as soon as he saw you. He knelt down in front of you. He knew you were like a trapped animal and your behaviour would be unpredictable. Hope for the best, prepare for the worse. You crawled to him and collapsed into his arms and closed your eyes.

"What did you do, Y/N?" You mumbled out that you didn't do anything. "Have you been using the pill box? Did you maybe mix everything up?" Probably. "How do you get yourself into these situations, huh? Come on." He helped you stand and walk back to the bedroom. He put your clothes and other belongings into the bags that were technically his anyway. He took them to the car and came back for you. Something he had done many times before and would continue to do for as long as you let him.

…

It took a few days for your head to clear. Van made you go back to the doctor for blood tests and to check your prescription. You saw your psychologist too, and within a few weeks you were back on track.

You were lying in Van's bed when he came home with a bag of peanut butter M&Ms for you. You afternoon napped together for a while, and when you were both awake you agreed that maybe you didn't owe it to your family to keep seeing them. As soon as the decision was made you felt some of the heaviness in you lift.

"No more midnight trips to come save you. You stay here, on this mattress now," Van said with lightness in his voice, but he was very serious.

"I missed this mattress,"

"And you're just lucky this district's dead and nobody saw me drag you in here that morning. Would've looked like I was kidnapping you or somethin',"

"Or that I'm just classless and am happy to come home with any boy at any hour,"

"Wait, isn't that true though?" he said with a mock-confused expression. You threw a pillow at him and started a tickle fight that you could never possibly win.

"We're not friends anymore, I'm done," you laughed out, getting up to leave the room. He pulled you back onto the bed by the waist. You made fake sounds of protest and squealed as he tickled you. He stopped when you yelled the code word. As you both recovered your breath, you untwisted his necklace and pressed a light kiss to the tip of his nose.

"Thought we weren't friends?" he asked, amused. He kissed you back.

"Guess I had a sudden change of heart."


End file.
